Sessions
by Ryous lil Tenshi
Summary: Ryou will continue to cut, Bakura will continue to drink, and the cycle will reverse. And that was how things were going to be. Ryou and Bakura have lost everything. Everything, that is, except for a little nightly masochism...


It was so weird how this came out... I was just like, right. I'm going to do a bloody fic. And then this happened. xD Not what I intended for, but meh. n.n''''

Disclaimer: I own nothing

* * *

It didn't hurt so much anymore.

Ryou could drag the blade across his forearm without wincing. He liked to look at the blood as it flowed from the fresh wound, the crimson line welling up and spilling over onto the carpet, mingling with older bloodstains.

Sometimes, Bakura would catch the blood.

He would cup his hands underneath Ryou's arm, watching the tiny liquid rubies pool in his palm, more and more, until there was enough to drink. Bakura would lift his hands to his lips, and drink the blood as though it were stronger, more invigorating and powerful than the strongest wine.

If Bakura was in a good mood, he would drink the blood straight from Ryou's arm.

Ryou would grit his teeth as Bakura licked his way up his arm, sponging up the drops of crimson with his tongue. If Bakura was lucky, Ryou would emit an odd whine- the only sound that ever spilled from his lips. Bakura would suckle on the wound until Ryou had no blood left, and always, always, he would take up the knife himself.

Bakura cuts much deeper than Ryou.

There is no emotion on his face as he stabs himself with the knife, but Ryou can tell he is overwhelmed by his trembling hands. He drags the blade through skin, muscle, and tendons harshly, far harder and angrier than Ryou's mourning, controlled slits. He hardly ever cried. Ryou cried enough for the both of them.

Both of the white-haired males have stopped eating.

* * *

"Fuck…" Bakura lets out a long sigh as he closes the apartment door behind him. His breath fogs in front of him, and he shivers. It is cold in December. Ryou is sitting in a huddle in the middle of the one-room apartment, his hands around his knees. "Hey." The yami mutters tonelessly, taking the few steps over towards the trembling teen. Despite being huddled so close to the small paraffin heater, Ryou is visibly shaking, tears in his eyes. 

"Don't cry." Bakura sighs as he sits down beside the teenager. One hand gropes inside the breast pocket of his tattered trench coat, and withdraws a packet of cigarettes. Ryou's eyes light up, just a little. "Here." Bakura extracts a cancer stick for Ryou, and one for himself, before replacing the creased pocket back into its' place. Ryou is silent as he holds the end of the cigarette in the blue flame of the heater for a moment, and then puts it between his lips. Bakura stares into the flame for a long time as he smoked, Ryou pressed into his side. Despite the teenager's coat- worn, but thick- Bakura can feel Ryou's ribs press against his. He makes a face.

"Went to see Malik today." Bakura mutters lowly, taking a drag on the cigarette. Ryou flicks his ash on the soiled moss green carpet, and raises his eyes up to the yami. "Weeds were growing over his headstone again… Took me almost an hour to shift them all." Ryou is silent, as though he hadn't heard, but Bakura knows he has by the way he tenses against him. "It's cold… Turn the heat up, Ryou." The teenager obeys, twirling the small gas release and watching the blue flame swell. "Christ, it's like fucking Antarctica in here." Bakura remarks. He is used to talking to himself now, uttering words without expecting an answer. Ryou is silent, taking another drag on his cigarette. Bakura leans his head on Ryou's shoulder, staring at the flame. It is a common pastime. The pair sit beside the pathetic heater for a long time, each thinking their own miserable, melancholy thoughts.

* * *

It is late when Bakura brings out the knife.

The moon shines through a tear in the faded beige curtains. Ryou is almost asleep in Bakura's arms, but he awakens when he sees the flash of the blade. It is almost a ritual. Ryou takes off his fingerless gloves, and rolls up the sleeves of his long grey shirt, and cheap worn jacket. The scars are plain to see in the moonlight. Bakura hands the blade to Ryou, who swallows, and hefts it in his hand. He presses the blade against the skin of his forearm, a few inches below his elbow. Ryou grits his teeth as he trails the blade across his skin, and despite his stoic appearance, Bakura can see tears in his eyes. Ryou sweeps the knife over another inch of skin, closing his eyes. The teenager removes the blade from the freshly cut skin, and rising it to his tongue. He licks the crimson drops from the blade, clenching his eyes as his arms starts to throb. Bakura looks at the wasted blood, trickling from Ryou's arm and into the floor, a fresh stain spreading. He leans down, and takes the teens arm in his hands, and licking at the trail of blood down his skin. Ryou freezes, and whines. Bakura smirks, and continues to lick the sweet coppery liquid until he reaches the source- The fresh cut on Ryou's arm. The boy bites his lip and arches his back slightly as Bakura sucks as much blood from his arm as he can, Ryou's free arm gradually sliding up his back, and curling in the wild make of silver that tangles down his back. Bakura enjoys these touches when he drinks from Ryou, the way he was able to make Ryou emit the softest gasps and whines and whimpers.

"Bloody hell Ryou." Bakura wipes at his mouth as he lifts his head, having drunk his fill of Ryou's blood. "You're so sweet…" The yami sits with his knees folded beneath him, Ryou half-slumped against him, staring at the fire. His fingers trembling in the cold, Bakura pulls Ryou's sleeves down, and replaces the gloves. He reaches into the gloom behind him, looking for the moth-eaten blanket he knows exists.

"Get some sleep." Bakura commands, shifting from beneath Ryou, and placing the blanket over his trembling frame, curled on the ground in a fetal position. Ryou nods, staring at the blue frame, and shivering. Bakura knows that if they both ate, then they would gain more body fat, and be warmer, but neither of them would see the point.

Bakura sighs as he picks up the switchblade, staring down at his enemy, his lover. Roughly, he pushes his clothing up one arm, exposing his skin, which is even more scarred than his lighter half's. There is no preparation as the yami slashes the knife wildly across his skin. Only pain. Pain, and blood. He grits his teeth as skin and muscles are torn, feeling saline water spring to his eyes. Bakura pushes the crying sensation away, however, dragging the knife over his skin again, staring at his blood as it flowed from torn veins.

He bleeds for longer than Ryou.

Bakura huddles deeper inside his coat, staring at his frozen arm, wet with blood. He crouches on the bloodstained carpet for what seems like ages, until his arm stops bleeding, leaving a sizeable stain on the carpet. Muttering, Bakura yanks down the sleeve of his jacket, staring at the blue paraffin flame. Ryou looks up at him with saddened chocolate eyes welling with tears.

* * *

They like to cut together.

Bakura drinks Ryou's blood, for strength, as he tells him, and because it tastes good. Ryou watches Bakura cut, and on the rare occasion, Bakura would let Ryou taste his blood. They like it best when they are curled up close together, Ryou in his lap, leaning against his bony ribcage. They will hold the blade together, and first, cut Ryou. Always Ryou first, Bakura commands. It is an unbreakable rule. Then, after Bakura has drunk, it is his turn to cut, angry, jagged slashes down his arm. Often, Ryou will cry, in fear, and pain, and pure grief for all that had been lost.

But that was okay.

Ryou will continue to cut, Bakura will continue to drink, and the cycle will reverse.

And that was how things were always going to be.

Always.

* * *

Read and review! And I really mean review... Please? I used to get so many...


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